Trust
by Lucrecia LeVrai
Summary: Having seriously strained Fox's trust, Bruce wants to know whether the other man would stay with the company. Set a few days after TDK's ending.


Disclaimer: Nothing that belongs to the _Batman_ universe, including the movies or the characters, is mine.

Author's Notes: There's a surprising lack of Bruce and Lucius fics out there, so I decided to fill in the gap by writing this small one-shot. It's kept in a fairly somber, angsty mood, but that's to be expected given the time setting: only a few days after the end of TDK.

* * *

_Trust_

by Lucrecia LeVrai

* * *

As a way to celebrate his victory, Bruce spent a whole day in bed, doing little else than sleeping, laying on his side and staring absently at the skyscrapers outside the glass walls of his penthouse, clenching and unclenching his fists. Alfred was there to accompany his unspoken thoughts, and for once in his life the young man found himself too exhausted to crack a joke, or even protest in earnest as the butler all but tucked him up after redressing his wounds.

On the second day, he moved to an armchair on the other side of his spacious bedroom, where he continued his silent mourning, occasionally interrupted by a brief glance at the TV. What he saw on the news was painful and disconcerting, but nowhere near as bad as the anguish he felt inside. He might have cried a bit the moment Rachel's death finally hit him in full force, but he didn't notice—his cheeks dried up long before he found enough strength to rub at his tired eyes.

On the third day, he grit his teeth and tried to exercise a little, much to Alfred's dismay. The butler's attempts to shepherd him back into bed were mostly ignored—he _was_ getting better, at least physically. The stitches didn't tear, despite the other man's grim predictions. Bruce knew what he was doing.

On the fourth day, he could no longer stand his own thoughts in that sterile apartment, so he fastened his tie and rode the elevator down to his office. Batman was a wanted criminal now—not that it would stop him from returning to his duties as soon as he regained some of his normal agility—but Bruce Wayne's reputation hadn't changed. No one in their right mind would make the connection between the brutal outlaw and the harmless, spoilt, almost adorably naïve playboy—unless they were unfortunate enough to comb through the Wayne Industries' archives and stumble upon the evidence.

Bruce's conversation with Reese went smoothly: the poor man was scared out of his wits, positively shaking as he lowered himself into a seat across his employer. Bruce didn't have to talk much, the lawyer went straight ahead to assuring him that the Batman's secret was safe. At Bruce's calm, probing question, whether the other man was really okay with protecting the identity of a murderer, Reese just stared back at him and uttered, 'But it's a mistake, isn't it? You wouldn't _kill_ anyone, Mr. Wayne—not after saving me like that.'

In the end, Reese kept his job and Bruce's day looked just a little bit brighter, never mind the fact that now came the real time he would have to put his people skills to the test.

* * *

The last time Bruce had spoken face to face with Lucius, he had been wearing the Batman's mask. They had stared each other down in a dark basement illuminated only by the dim glow of monitors belonging to a device he had constructed without the other man's knowledge, let alone his agreement. As preoccupied as he had been with the task at hand, he hadn't missed the quiet fury or the sheer disappointment in Lucius's tone.

Today he had no mask to shield him from the CEO's displeasure, except maybe for his regular disguise as an oblivious idiot, which would be useless in Lucius's presence, anyway. Dressed in a neat businessman's attire, he waited for the other man in a fancy cafeteria on the eighty-seventh floor, one reserved only for high-ranking directors. He wasn't worried about privacy, they'd have plenty of that here. The tables were placed in a strategic manner, far away from each other, allowing the patrons to discuss their deals without fear of being overheard. His table, for example, was separated from the rest of the room by a large aquarium filled with exotic fish. To his right, there was nothing but clean, near-invisible glass and a breathtaking view of the city centre.

It felt strange to be sitting here in broad daylight, enjoying a light appetizer when the police were out there for his blood, but he supposed that, in a way, this was hardly any different than before: waving cheerfully at the photographers, while shrugging off the fact that the Mob had just risen the price on the Batman's head. Then again, it was _very much_ different this time. The Mob planning his demise was granted, they were the enemy. The police, on the other hand…

Damn it all, what had he gotten himself into?

Fortunately, Lucius didn't make him wait long. Painful as it was, Bruce made an attempt to stand up in order to greet the man properly, but he was stopped by a hand upon his shoulder.

"No need for formalities today, Mr. Wayne."

He nodded and stayed in place. Lucius's voice sounded amiable enough and his actions were thoughtful, but Bruce knew better than to assume the CEO was no longer angry at him.

"I'm glad you've agreed to have lunch with me," he said lightly, watching the other man reach for the menu he must have learnt by heart by now. A silent, unobtrusive waiter lingered by their table. "You're usually busy at this hour, aren't you?"

"Busier than you, most days. Is it going to be your lunch or your breakfast, Mr. Wayne?"

"Both, I suppose." He smiled on reflex. A short break from his usual activities wasn't enough to alter his sleeping routine.

"Your company could use some of your free time," Lucius observed matter-of-factly, and there was of course a double meaning to his words, because with the Batman temporarily incapacitated, Bruce did have some spare time on his hands. "How was your spa weekend, by the way? I trust you have rested well?"

"Oh, yeah. I had a few beauty treatments done. Great service, too. I'm really fresh as a daisy now."

They paused to give the waiter their orders, and then watched in silence as the man disappeared from view.

"Alfred said you had turned your penthouse into a bloody mess and hadn't even had the decency to clean up afterwards—just passed out as soon as you had stumbled upon the bed."

"He exaggerates, as usual." Upon noticing Lucius's raised eyebrow, Bruce added reluctantly, "Alright, it was quite bad—but not _that_ bad. I'm already up and about, as you can see."

"How's the bullet wound?"

"Not a problem, healing nicely. One of the dog bites got infected, but Alfred took care of that."

The complete list of his injuries went much longer: there were two cracked ribs from his five-storey fall in the warehouse, a large welt across his chest from the car crash that had saved Reese's life, knife wounds, not to mention a vast supply of huge, interestingly shaped bruises and smaller cuts. Bruce didn't feel like sharing it all with the other man; they hadn't come here for his health checkup, anyway. Besides, he was relatively certain that Alfred had already made a point to complain to his friend about each one of the new scars his master (or his 'reckless idiot of a charge', in this case) could add to his rapidly growing collection.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Bruce hadn't expected such straightforwardness from the other man. Perhaps he looked worse than he thought, his 'spa weekend' notwithstanding.

"I'll be fine."

Lucius stared imploringly at his face, but Bruce refused to continue; he took a long sip from his glass, instead. He had never been any good at discussing his personal issues with other people, even those counted among his rare friends. It made him feel naked, vulnerable, and he never seemed to be able to put certain things into words without sounding utterly lost, anyway.

The truth was, he didn't feel 'fine' by any standards. Aside from the physical wounds that still hurt whenever he moved, yet would be forcefully ignored like all other injuries he had sustained in the past, there was this gnawing, mental pain that couldn't be brushed off just as easily. In the span of a few days, he had very nearly lost his everything, including the sight of his own goals, and it had left him more than just a bit emotionally shaken. He had lost Rachel, his friend and confidant, the woman he had loved for years. She had chosen him over another man, told him she would wait for him to give up his crusade, and he had repaid her commitment by bringing this tragedy upon her. He had lost Harvey, too, when he had sincerely believed in him as Gotham's new hero, Batman's legitimate successor, people's true savior.

The white knight had fallen and so had the dark one. Batman had taken the blame for crimes he hadn't committed—perhaps he owed this much to Harvey, after all. He told himself it was necessary, a sacrifice for greater good, but it didn't make him feel any less bitter. Seeing himself labeled as a dangerous psychopath by the media was nothing new, though, and it stung no more than reading about Bruce 'Brucie' Wayne being such a letdown, a shallow snob who constantly tarnished his father's name.

It wasn't the talking heads that worried him. He had had few allies with the police before, but his presence in the city had been tolerated, even welcome. Harvey's downfall had ruined it all. He would be on his own now, a feared, hated murderer, with no one but Gordon to turn to—and did he really wish to continue endangering Gordon's family and reputation?

He wondered if he had made the right choices. He'd better had, because they cost him so much, nearly too much. He had chosen not to yield even as more innocent people had died at the Joker's hands, and then he had let Harvey become the bait in their mad game. The psychopath's mocking assessment of his actions rang through his head, unbidden, just like it did nearly every night: _even for a guy like me, that's __cold__. _Bruce knew that the clown had been purposely screwing with his mind in order to break him, and that he probably shouldn't let these words get to his head, but God… was he really _that_ ruthless?

Not a long time ago he had told Alfred that he couldn't endure this, yet here he was now: the lone survivor staring at the ashes of his life, the bridges burnt and no turning back. Even so, how was he supposed to deal with the knowledge that his actions had inspired so much madness? To the ordinary citizens, he had meant to become a symbol of hope, not one of violence and destruction…

"Mr. Wayne?" Lucius's voice finally broke his train of thought.

Bruce blinked and tore his gaze away from the window. Spacing out in the middle of the conversation was only going to make it longer, and it certainly wouldn't convince anyone of his well-being.

He leant back in his seat, one hand stretched and resting on the table, the other bent and propped against the back of his chair. It looked like a fairly nonchalant pose, but when he addressed the man before him, it was in a serious voice most people had never heard him use.

"Lucius. I appreciate the fact that you're going easy on me these days, but I need to know where we stand. Will you be staying with the company?"

"Straight to the point, aren't you?" Fox's lips curled up slightly, and yet his gaze remained hard.

"If you still want to resign, I'll respect your choice." It cost him a lot to admit this. He trusted Lucius to keep the secret of Batman's identity to himself, but that was beside the point. The man had been a great ally to both Batman and Bruce, a genius inventor and a competent CEO embodied in a single, honest, hardworking person. It would be hard, if not downright impossible, to find a suitable replacement for each role. Bruce himself was good with both business and science, as proved by the device that had caused their current disagreement, but he was seriously limited by his nightly activities and the mask he had to wear by day.

"How generous of you."

Bruce flinched at the sarcasm. "Sorry. I didn't mean it to sound that way."

"No, I suppose not." The stern look in Lucius's eyes softened a bit, though not by much. They stared each other down for a while, paying no attention to the glittering skyscrapers outside.

"Mr. Wayne," Fox said at last, suddenly all businesslike, "I want you to know that even though I'm no longer thinking about handing you my resignation, I am very dissatisfied with what I saw in the laboratory that day. And that's putting it mildly."

On the outside, Bruce appeared calm and unmoved—as Batman should be—but on the inside, he felt some uneasiness rise, despite his CEO's much appreciated decision to stay. He knew that the other man wasn't finished with him yet. As simple as it would be to dance around the subject now, once he had gotten what he wanted, he forced himself to listen. He cared about Lucius's opinion no less than he cared about his cooperation, even if that opinion currently seemed lower than usual.

"You've seen that psychopath," he said as a way of explanation, almost marveling at the sound of his controlled voice, when he had come but a step away from bashing the clown's face in with his bare hands not a long while ago. "He had to be stopped at all cost."

Fox shook his head, still unconvinced. "You built that sonar completely behind my back. You had it all planned in advance."

"I hoped I wouldn't have to use it."

There was another pause as Lucius took off his glasses, carefully placing them on the table. The elderly scientist didn't look much different than Alfred had this morning, the moment he had caught his master fumbling with his shirt and learnt of his plans to visit the office. Bruce braced himself for the inevitable lecture.

"Mr. Wayne, let me tell you something," the graying man began, his voice as stern as his expression. "At first, I thought you were aiming only to avenge your parents' deaths, and regardless of how much I grieved over the injustice that allowed the real culprit to escape unpunished, I had qualms about helping you—though I told myself that bringing a few criminals down wouldn't be such a bad idea. These qualms lessened somewhat when I learnt about the true extent of your plans. It wasn't about passing self-righteous judgement in cold blood, it was so much more. I came to terms with the fact that you went against the law on many occasions—given your task, it was inevitable. But you must understand that by not exposing you, by actively supporting you, I share responsibility for your actions."

He knew that Fox wasn't concerned merely with the legal consequences of his involvement as Batman's accomplice. Besides, even upon discovery, Bruce would never allow the police to put their hands on any evidence that could lead them directly to his CEO, not if he could help it.

"You're not responsible for anything, Lucius." His face was a calm mask as he spoke, "These were all my choices, no one else's. Although, it's true that I wouldn't have come this far without you."

"Kidnapping important suspects or damaging public property doesn't bother me as much as you think, Mr. Wayne. However," the man's eyes grew darker, "if you convince yourself that the end justifies all means, you _will_ lose your battle."

"I know." The tiredness he felt had finally found its way into his voice.

Lucius needn't have lectured him. He was now painfully aware, even more than when he had spoken with Rachel for the last time, what would happen to him if he lost his principles. Beyond the thin line separating him from the criminals he fought, there was only a bottomless abyss waiting for him.

"Looks like I was a fool to trust you completely," Lucius spoke at last, serious, not hostile. It stung, this admittance, yet Bruce held his tongue. "But I still believe in your ability to judge what is wrong and what is right. Just try not to strain my trust again, because next time, no matter how much I respect you, I won't hesitate to take action against you. You have my word on that."

"I understand." There was another long pause, and then, "Truce, Lucius?"

"Truce, Mr. Wayne."

They shook their hands above the table, just in time before the waiter returned with their food.

"Phew." Bruce slumped back into his seat as soon as they were alone again. "You know, you had me worried there for a while, threatening me with your resignation and all," he said in deliberately light-hearted, comical tone, perfectly aware that he was not fooling anyone here. He would have hated to let Fox go, a fact Fox realized very well. "What would I have _ever_ done without you, seriously?"

"Killed yourself in some bizarre spelunking accident a year back, I'm sure," Lucius snorted, this time not unkindly. "You'll need a new car after your wounds finally heal up… No, knowing you, you'll probably need it long before that. You break your toys faster than I build them. Keep this up and you'll be forced to run from the police in nothing but a mask and Kevlar underpants to protect your dignity."

Never mind the fact that such a thing didn't even exist in the first place… "Now that sounds like a sight to behold. I'm sure Detective Montoya would have loved it." For the first time in days, Bruce actually smiled—not a huge, fake grin like the one he had given his secretary this morning, or a humorless smirk directed at Reese, but a genuine expression of amusement, short-lived as it was.

"So you say, Mr. Wayne." There was a twinkle in Fox's eyes, too. "Now eat up, your lunch's getting cold and you have a meeting with the board in half an hour, assuming you feel rested enough to attend."

"Wait, what? I do?" He blinked and started to munch on his food, falling into the familiar, clueless playboy act. "I'm the goddamn owner of this company! How come I didn't get the memo?"


End file.
